


god did not craft us as altars, but as dying gods

by helloitisiafellowgay



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dissociation, He gets real whumped y’all, I DON’T SHIP STARKER, I reiterate - Freeform, IM LITERALLY WRITING ABOUT PEDOPHILIA IM NOT PUTTING IN A PEDOPHILIC SHIP, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Skip Westcott can actually go die, Skip Westcott is his own trigger warning, Social Anxiety, THAT BEING SAID, THIS HAS NEVER AND WILL NEVER BE STARKER, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, be careful guys, non-graphic tho, thank you, this is not starker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 04:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19077967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitisiafellowgay/pseuds/helloitisiafellowgay
Summary: Peter Parker is not immune to trauma.Far from it, in fact.(With great power comes great responsibility, Peter.)So when the building collapses, when the dilapidated remains of metal and concrete, and later searing scraps of plane, fall around him? Well, this is practically nothing.Practically.He’s fine, really. It just gets a little hard to breathe sometimes. Like, when he follows Happy into Stark Tower through the parking garage. Or when he turns on the news while doing homework and sees reports of a plane crash.And sure, the small fire that broke out in the chemistry lab had sent his heart racing and caused sweat to bead on the back of his neck until even Ned asked if he was okay, but it’s nothing to worry about.Regardless, he knows where those come from.But this?************************************In which Skip Westcott is a repressed memory, until he returns.





	1. when is a martyr not a martyr?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all. 
> 
> I plan on making this a couple parts long, so like stay tuned I guess lol.
> 
> The obvious trigger warnings apply, but:  
> \- Implied/referenced sexual assault/abuse  
> \- Non-con elements  
> \- Symptoms of sexual abuse  
> \- Panic Attacks/Anxiety  
> \- Dissociation (in later parts, but I’m putting it here now)
> 
> If there are any others, please let me know. 
> 
> That being said, please don’t read this if it’s going to be triggering. Your wellbeing is more important to me than you reading this.

_The metal was collapsing around him, he was sure of it. Hands scrabbling at the sides, fingernails tearing, the young boy tried to push it away. A large jagged piece was suspended directly above his chest, and, despite the fact that he could feel it cutting him on every inhale, he couldn’t stop heaving in breaths._

_“Help, someone! I’m stuck! Please, I-I can’t get out of here!”_

_Slowly, the realization that no one was coming sapped all of the energy out of him. His arms were slipping, metal piercing his sternum-_

_Suddenly, he was in a wooden coffin, blood rushing from his stomach. He quelled his breath, attempting to conserve what little oxygen he had left. Splinters worked their way underneath his skin every time he moved._

_“Shhh, shhh..._ good boy.”

_There were hands on his mouth, holding his wrists down, and he couldn’t see but he could feel someone’s breath in his ear, whispering. A flash of white, pain, and then-_

     Peter Parker woke up with a gasp, tears welling up in his eyes. Holding his breath, he listened for the steady pull of May’s sleeping breath in the other room, collapsing back on the bed with relief when he realized he hadn’t woken her up. 

     Opening his phone, the almost-blinding screen informed him that it was almost 2:00 AM.  Great.

     He debated about going out on patrol, but decided against it. Mr. Stark and May had set his curfew at midnight on school nights, and Karen would definitely alert the man if he was out later. 

     Peter thought back on his dream- more accurately, nightmare. It was already slipping from his mind, just the vague sensation of feeling trapped and overwhelming fear left as residue. Even so, the teenager knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep. 

     Opening his Physics textbook and turning on the flashlight on his phone, he decides to cram in a little more studying before his test later that morning. 

 

* * *

 

     “Do you think whales sneeze?”

     Peter chuckles at his best friend. “Probably not.” 

     Chemistry had turned into a free period after Flash had mixed the wrong chemicals and inadvertently caused a small explosion. The boy in question was now sulking in the corner while Mrs. Green gave him a lecture about lab safety.

     The teenager drags a hand over his eyes, exhaustion hitting him like a freight train. He’d done well on his Physics exam, but the lost hours of sleep were finally catching up to him. 

     Mainly because he’d been unable to sleep for more than a couple hours a night for the past couple of days. But like, that was fine, right? Teenagers are supposed to stay up late.

     Regardless, he felt like  shit . Putting his head down, he considered taking a nap during study hall, but quickly dismissed the thought. He had to study for the spanish test the period after that he’d completely forgotten about.

     “Dude, you okay?” Ned’s voice filters in around the pounding in his head. The other boy leans in closer, coming as close to a whisper as he was capable of. “Is it a Spiderman thing? What happened on patrol last night? I bet it was something really cool!”

     Peter halfheartedly shakes his head, forcing a smile as he lifts his head from his arms. “I’m fine, Ned. Just had a long night. No extracurriculars. I stayed up studying for the Physics test.”

     Ned pats his shoulder in sympathy. He was waiting until the next year to take Physics, but had heard from peers, particularly Peter himself, how strenuous the class was.

    Checking the time, Peter groans upon seeing that they still had half an hour left of class. 

_Fuck this._ “Wake me up when class ends.”

 

* * *

 

     The keys to the apartment jangle as he inserts them in the lock. The rest of the school day had gone fine, minus Flash’s incessant chattering during lunch and the small migraine he felt pounding in the back of his skull.

     Instead of the keys turning, the door swings open.  _That’s weird. May usually works on Tuesdays._

     As he opens the door, his senses pulse, sending needles across his shoulder blades. The shock of white hair sitting at the kitchen counter is a surprise.

     “Peter, come in! I forgot to tell you that I wasn’t working today. Cindy took my shift.” Aunt May comes around the counter where she had previously been obscured from view. 

     The man at the counter turns around to face him, and his spidey-sense sends another hard shock down his spine. Headache present but forgotten, he drops his bag to the floor.

     May turns. “You remember Skip, right? He was your babysitter when you were younger.” She places a hand on the man’s- Skip’s- shoulder. “It’s a shame his family had to move.”

     Peter slowly shakes his head, lungs starting to seize up from the incessant humming of his sixth sense.  _Something’s wrong._

     He turns his gaze towards Skip. “Sorry, uh, no I don’t remember.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “You seem like a good person though. 

     May’s brow wrinkles. “Really? He watched you for like three and a half years.”

     “I-I honestly don’t remember him.”

     “But-“

     Skip waves her off, but there are hints of suspicion and something else that he’s unable to identify in the man’s gaze. “That’s too bad. We used to have a lot of fun together, Einstein.”

     The words bring acid to the back of his throat, make him want to crawl in his bed and never let anyone close to him again, but he doesn’t understand why. There’s no reason for a phrase like that and a nickname to spark such a negative bodily response. 

     He forces a smile. “I wouldn’t know, but sounds like it.” He turns to May. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do, I’m going to head to my room, if that’s okay?”

     “Of course. Just make it back out in time for dinner. Since Skip is here we’re going to order Thai.”

     Peter nods slowly, and Skip stands up. He comes over and puts an arm around his shoulders, and the teenager flinches away from the contact.

     He hated it when people touched him. Even May and Ned had to ask to get permission first. He hadn’t brought it up with Tony yet, afraid that the superhero would think he was weak.

     Glancing at the older man as he does so, Peter heads back towards his room.

     Skip gave him a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he still had no idea what the cause could be.

     He opens his calculus textbook, but the words keep swimming in front of him until he’s forced to shut it with a sigh. He’s too anxious to do anything but sit and watch the door. Patrol was definitely out then.

     He can hear May and Skip chatting in the living room, the sound rising above the sound of the dishwasher rumbling and the cars down on the street below. 

“He looks so much older now. Is he still a little genius?”

     May laughs. “Oh yeah. He’s only a sophomore but he’s taking all AP classes this year. And he’s an intern for Stark Industries. He’s  Tony Stark’s  personal intern.”

     “Holy shit.” A cough. The sound of cups clinking and footsteps, then, “I always knew that he would be great.” Skip chuckles. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I had to get him to slow down and breathe when he went on a tangent about physics, or Iron Man.”

     Peter stops listening. May clearly trusted this guy, liked him, and yet.... Peter couldn’t stop anxiety from wrapping itself around his lungs.

 

* * *

 

     Dinner had been an awkward affair, with Peter barely touching his food, and Skip trying to engage him in conversation. He’d stuttered his way through a couple sentences, but mostly gave nondescript one-word answers when he could get away with it. 

     It was a couple days later, and the older man was staying the night, after another awkward dinner. Peter was debating on never coming out of his room again. 

     While watching Ghostbusters earlier, one of his favorite movies, Skip had slung an arm around his shoulders, and hadn’t. moved. 

     As soon as the movie reached the end credits, the boy had claimed he was tired as scrambled to his room, on the verge of a panic attack.

     Currently nestled in his bed, the teenager tried to quell his racing heartbeat. His ‘spidey-sense’ had been increasing in intensity throughout the night, and he was exhausted.

     Not to mention the fact that  _Skip had touched him_.

     He wondered when he’d become so afraid of people. When his nightmares hadn’t been so prevalent, when he hadn’t felt the need to take two hour showers, even though the water bill was hell to fit into their budget already.

     Ever since he was younger, he’d had his anxiety skyrocket. There was a mysterious gap in his memory from around that time that he preferred not to think about, but like, that was normal. 

     People don’t usually remember their childhoods, right?

     His breathing was starting to become labored, fingertips trembling. The feeling of discomfort and anxiety grew in his stomach.

     This reminded him of the last time he’d taken Health, back in seventh grade. When they’d given them a talk about what to do when someone was doing things that were making you uncomfortable. How you should always tell an adult because “sexual assault isn’t something to joke about”.

     How weird the lesson had felt, and how he’d come home and laid on his bed for what felt like hours, chest heavy and nausea creeping up his throat. 

     Just like right now.

     Ice ran down his back, freezing him in place, shock stilling his shaking.

_No._

_But it would make sen-_

     He slams his eyes closed, tears welling up as he gasped for breath . _No._

_But you need to make sure-_

     He blinks back the water.  _No. I-_

     Peter quells his shaking long enough to type  _symptoms of childhood sexual assault_   into the search engine on his phone.

_Why the fuck am I doing this, there’s no way that this is going to be right._

      Pupils burning, he clicks on the first article that pops up. 

      He takes a couple deep breaths, eyelids shut tight.  _You have to look at it. You won’t know unless you look at it._

      Peter peels open his eyes, stomach churning, before scanning the text as quickly as he can. 

_A child who is the victim of prolonged sexual abuse usually develops..... low self-esteem..... feeling of worthlessness.... an abnormal or distorted view of sex..... may become withdrawn and mistrustful of adults.......the child can become suicidal.... feel powerless, ashamed, and distrustful of others......increase in anxiety and depression......adversity to touch... increase in nightmares.....insomnia...._

_Sound like anyone you know?_

     His phone clatters out of his hands. 

     “Oh my god,” he breathes out, chest tight and hands shaking.  _Holy shit._

     The article seemed to glare at him from its position from the carpet.

_No, no that can’t be right. There’s no way that...._ that  _could’ve happened to him._

     But it made sense. All of the symptoms added up. The comfort that showering had always brought him, the heightened anxiety when strangers brushed against him, the long nights awake,  his reaction when Skip had touched him. It was all right there. And-

    There was a knock on his bedroom door, and his eyebrows wrinkled. It was almost 11:00, May wouldn’t still be awake.

    “Hey Einstein, can I come in?” Skip’s voice lingered in the air far longer than it should have. 

     Peter felt his senses throbbing. “Uh, maybe- maybe not right now? I was just about to head to bed.” A lie, but he didn’t need to know that. 

     The door creaked open to reveal the older man standing in the doorway. “Come on, I just wanted to catch up. It’ll only take a couple minutes.” 

     Peter looked around his room frantically. His senses were yelling at him to run, and he felt cornered. “Uh...”

     Skip took a step into the room, shutting the door. “It’ll be fun.”

     His eyes shot to the now closed door, and the man coming steadily closer. His heart was practically in his throat, and he felt the beginnings of a panic attack carving its way into his chest. The cumulation of what he’d just learned coupled with this almost too much to handle. 

     But Skip’s words gave him pause, stirred something in him, dislodged a memory from the back of his mind. 

_“Hey Einstein, look at the game these men are playing. Looks fun, doesn’t it? It’s for big kids. Maybe we should play. You’re a big kid, aren’t you?”_

     Peter couldn’t breathe.  _No. No. No no no nononononononono._

     Skip took a seat on the bed, next to him. “Look, I know you were lying to your aunt about not remembering me. But you don’t have to pretend around me.” He wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he flinched away from the intrusive touch. “We used to have a lot of fun together Pete, and I-“ he sighed. “I’m sorry-“

     Peter couldn’t believe it. The bastard was _apologizing_. For-

     “-that it had to end so soon. I know how much you liked the games we would play. Now that you’re older,” he leaned in close, and Peter’s world narrowed down to his sour breath and the warm air against his neck and the way Skip’s other hand was slowly creeping up his leg. “I think you’ll like it even more.”

     Peter was unable to move. His mind was screaming at him, but his body recognized the endorphins, the touch, and had decided this was the best way to get through it. He felt hot tears drip down his cheeks. 

     Skip brought him closer, moaning. “You’re even prettier than you were back then,  god .”

_Well fuck that._

     Peter’s phone chose that moment to ring, and he’d never felt so grateful for anything in his life.

     He squirmed away from Skip, from  _hishandsandpainandbrightflashofwhite_ , and reached for his discarded phone. “I-I really need to take this sir.”

     Skip tried to pull him back towards the bed. “Just ignore it, Einstein. This is more important.”

     But Peter was already pressing the phone to his ear, wiping the water off his face. “H-hello?”

     “Hey kid, just wanted to know if you wanted to stop by for a hot minute to work on your suit.” Mr. Stark’s voice through the speaker was a godsend. 

     “Mr. S-Stark?”

     Skip’s annoyance morphed into surprise. “Tony Stark? Like, Iron Man, Tony Stark?”

     Peter nodded slowly, eyes trained on Skip as his mentor spoke again. 

     “Karen detected a severe change in your vitals. You doing okay kid? I did tell you to call me if you needed help on patrol.” The man’s voice softened, worry lacing through the words. 

     Peter glanced at the watch Mr. Stark had given him for his birthday, realization dawning.  _Mr. Stark put a vital monitor in it_.  And then,  _he thinks I’m on patrol_. 

     A quick glance back to Skip before, “Uh... I-I’m at home right-right now. But... but you c-can come pick me up if it’s important?” 

     Mr. Stark’s concern is palpable through the phone. “Kid? What’s wrong?”

     Skip’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell would he pick you up? You’re an intern.”

     “Peter, is there someone in the room with you?” 

     He freezes, and Skip shakes his head slowly. 

     “N-no sir. It’s just the television.”

     “Okay....” His mentor’s voice is laced with suspicion. “You still up for me picking you up?”

      Skip mouths, “Leave this room, and I’ll hurt your aunt.”

     Peter froze.  _I can’t let him hurt May._

     “I think I’m- think I’m just going to go to bed Mr.- Mr. Stark. I could stop b-by after school tomorrow?”

     “You sure kid?”

     Peter almost blurts out everything at how soft Mr. Stark’s tone is, but he holds his tongue, eyes fixed on Skip’s hands. “I’m sure.”

     “Night Pete. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send Happy to come pick you up.”

     “Bye, Mr. Stark.”

     Peter hangs up the call with a button push that seems all too final.

     “Now that he’s gone,” the older man leans forward, leering. “Einstein, get on the bed.”

     Peter scrambles back on the floor, and Skip sighs before advancing towards him, tongue clicking. “Peter, it won’t be fun if you don’t listen to me.”

     The teenager shakes his head rapidly, eyes burning. “N-no. I don’t- I don’t want to do anything with you.”

     Skip laughs, but it comes out more scornful than anything else. “You know you love it, you little shit. Don’t even try to-“

     “What the  _fuck_  is going on here?” May’s voice cuts through the bedroom, stopping Skip in his tracks. She’s peering around his once-again open bedroom door. 

     “M-May. He-He tried to-“ he tries to get out, but Skip interrupts.

     “I thought I heard something coming from his room, and it’s a good thing I did. Poor kid was having a nightmare. I woke him up but he started to freak out and have a panic attack.”

     May turned her worried gaze on her nephew. “Awww, Peter, you know you can always come to me if you have a nightmare.”

     Skip glared at him from behind his Aunt, and Peter swallowed heavily, eyes downcast. “I know May. I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t apologize, Einstein,” Skip cuts in. “Everyone gets a little scared sometimes.”

 

* * *

 

     Skip leaves for work early the next morning, Peter listening through the walls to him bidding May a good day and hurrying out the door. He hopes he never comes back. 

     But his Parker luck had other plans. 

     The older man started showing up more. First it was just for dinner, here and there, sometimes spending the night. After a while though.... it seemed like he was everywhere; at the breakfast table in the morning, sitting on the couch when he got home from school, creeping into his room and- 

     Yeah, Peter had had better days. 

     The bruises weren’t going away anymore. When he was at the apartment, he barely left his room, opting to miss meals than deal with Skip. He’d started using May’s concealer while she was at work to cover the colored patches up before school and the internship. 

     Trying to hide what Skip was doing from Mr. Stark was hard. School was about to let out, and with it, the weather was steadily growing warmer. His long sleeves were becoming suspicious, and he could only lie to Mr. Stark so many times before the older man would start to catch on.

     After that first night and the phone call, Tony has started to hover more, inviting him to stay the night over at the Compound on more than one occasion. 

 

* * *

 

 

     “Bye, Happy!” Peter shut the car door, hoisting his backpack higher up on his shoulder. 

     Mr. Stark had invited him over to the lab to work on his suit after school, and he was nervous. Skip had been drinking last night, and it hadn’t gone well. He had a long gash on his upper thigh from when the older man had pulled a knife, and he was desperately trying to hide his limp.

     He swiped his official Stark Industries pass to get in the lobby, and made his way over to the elevator. 

     The tower never failed to amaze him. With its large pristine walls and intricate ceiling detail, the building really was a masterpiece. 

     As he stepped into the elevator, his ‘spidey-senses’ began to hum softly. He looked around in confusion, but no one else was present. 

_That’s weird. Do you think it’s-_  

     The teenager tensed up.  _No, he wouldn’t come here._

     The doors opened up to reveal the controlled-chaos that always seemed to hover over the lab of one eccentric billionaire.

     The owner was bent over an empty Iron Man husk, hands buried in the protruding wires. 

 

* * *

 

     “ _Shit_ ,  Pete. You gotta call me next time, kid.” Tony whistles at the deep gash on his mentee’s thigh, which was still pooling blood. “Why didn’t Karen alert me?”

     It had taken some coaxing to get the kid to reveal the injury, and even more to get him to show him. He’d refused to go to the medbay, and told Tony that he’d let the older man patch him up.

     His jeans were pulled down to his mid-thigh, and Tony had a fleeting thought of how bad it would look if someone walked in on them in this position. 

     Peter wouldn’t meet his eyes. “...because I told her not to?” 

     He wipes a hand over his face. “Gre- Okay. Okay, just- call me next time. Getting hurt on patrol like this can’t be a consistent thing, kid.”  

     “I know. I’m sorry.” Peter’s voice seemed small and timid, and he had to stop himself from reacting to the way his heart seemed to skip a beat at how  tired  the kid sounded.

     The kid had been quieter than usual today, but the older man hadn’t wanted to pry. He was starting to regret that now. Something was definitely up.  

     “Just try to reach out next time.” 

     Peter’s fidgeted with his sleeves, opening and closing his mouth a few times before mumbling, “I didn’t think you wanted me to bother you.”

     Okay, fuck it. Tony’s heart broke clean in half. If there’s one thing he wanted to avoid, was acting like his father. “I don’t care if it’s a paper cut, or you wanna rant about thermonuclear astrophysics, kid. Or that girl you like.. TJ? MJ?” Peter blushed, and Tony chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “Point is, you’re allowed to reach out to me.”

     “Okay...” 

     Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, heart-to-heart over with. Let me clean that gash up.”

 

* * *

 

     “Oh my god, I’m so sorry Mr. Stark,” Peter stutters out. “I just... I don’t know, my senses went nuts and I guess I got overwhelmed and then I guess I didn’t notice that it was you so I-“

     Tony raises a hand to the back of his head, cutting the kid off with the same motion. He swears when he presses gingerly on a tender spot. “Think you could’ve hit me a little harder, kid?”

     When the older man had pressed the peroxide to the wound on his thigh, to say that Peter had freaked out was an understatement. He’d ultimately ended up pushing Tony across the room, the billionaire hitting his head against a large metal shelving unit. 

     Peter’s eyes grow wide, and his words are rushed. “I’m so sorry Mr. Stark, I won’t do it again, I promise. Please don’t-“

     He softens his voice. “It’s okay, Pete, just an accident. It’s gonna take a little more than that to get the best of Tony Stark.” 

     Peter’s eyes are downcast again. “But-“ 

     Tony places his hand on the kid’s knee, and he flinches hard, eyes clenched. Tony pulls it back immediately. “Peter?”

     “I’m fine.” The teenager starts picking at the skin around his nails. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”

     “I know, buddy.”

     They sit in silence for a moment, before Tony slowly reaches back over for the medical supplies. “You okay with me finishing up, or do you need a minute?”

     Peter considers the question for a moment, before nodding hesitantly. 

     While he works on patching up the wound, Peter stiff beneath his touch, he wonders what could’ve pulled that kind of reaction out of the kid. It could have just been unexpected, like Peter had said but... the feeling that it was something more serious than that was nagging at him. 

     Tony is a man not used to silence, he’ll admit. So he breaks it. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

     Peter seems to hunch into himself. “I don’t know.” He shrugs stiffly. “It was probably nothing.”

     He gives a disbelieving laugh. “Kid, that wasn’t nothing.” 

     “‘S not important.” He shrugs tightly. “Sometimes I just-“ he pauses. Tony offers him a small smile, urging him to go on. Peter seems to be berating himself. “I.... I want to get back to working on the nanotech, if that’s okay?”

     Tony can’t hide his disappointment, but he puts on a classic Tony Stark smile for Peter’s sake. “How ‘bout instead~”, he pauses, dragging out the last syllable, noticing how the muscles of his protégé start to tense, “We order pizza and watch one of those movies about the space people?”

     Peter seems to relax marginally, face screwing up in confusion. “You mean Star Wars?”

     “Yeah, that.” Tony waves his hand dismissively, but even Peter could see the smile forming. 

     When he turned away though, it dropped. Something was definitely up with the kid, and he was going to figure out what.


	2. we all swallow the earth, sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries to dodge, but the closet isn’t very big- it’s too small toosmall- and the older man easily reaches over and grabs the phone from his hand. “Is this Tony Stark?”
> 
> Tony’s voice becomes more reminiscent of his alter ego. “Yes. Who is this?”
> 
> “Steven Westcott. May’s boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I thought this was only going to be 3 chapters, but apparently not. It’ll probably be 4, maybe five, so for now it reads as undecided. 
> 
> Also, my writing style is a bit different in this one, mainly because I wanted to portray the effects of dissociation on the mind. Also lowkey because I like poetry and prefer writing things more poetically lol. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for this chapter:  
> \- sexual abuse of a minor/in general  
> \- Heavy dissociation  
> \- self harm (unintentional)  
> \- vomit mention  
> \- suicidal ideation/thoughts (major in next chapter, idk if it’s mentioned in this one, but just in case)  
> \- repressed memories 
> 
> Again, please stay safe guys, I really don’t want to trigger any of you. I want you safe more than I need you to read this.

Peter likes to believe that he knows his triggers. Guns, for one. And alleyways. And robbers. And banks, and large bodies of water, and collapsing buildings and planes and-

Well, he thought he knew all of them. Albert Einstein is a new one. So are nicknames. And _hands_.

Mr. Stark calls him Pete, and he curls his fingernails so hard into his arms that he draws blood, resists the temptation to ask him to  _please not call him that_.

Refuses to think about how Skip is slowly taking everything he enjoys away from him.

May tries to give him a hug before her graveyard shift at the hospital, but Skip is staring down at him from over her shoulder and he can’t breathe  _ he can’t breathe- _

A unit on past scientists begins in Chemistry, and he spends the class period about Einstein curled over a toilet in the bathroom. Ned, oblivious to the situation, but such a good friend (Peter is so lucky,  _he doesn’t deserve_ _-_ ), spends the period leaning against the radiator gelling him about funny Spider-Man memes he’d seen recently on twitter. 

He knows they’re worried, hell,  _he’s worried_ , but he, for all of his supposed brains and talents and honors classes, can’t figure out what to do. 

 

* * *

 

Skip comes into his room that night, and tells him to be quiet, and good, and complacent, and-

He listens. Because the man is already touching him and on top of him and he already can’t breathe and his mind- Well, his mind isn’t all-together there anymore, is it? It hasn’t been in days and he’s afraid of what that means, because it seems like he blinks and suddenly it’s been hours and he can’t remember anything. 

He goes to school, remembers nothing, comes home to Skip and  _hands_ , and lays awake all night barely breathing, because Skip could come back, even though he was just hurting him hours ago, and god, he’s so fucking  _tired_. 

When his old babysitter collapses on top of him, finished, he squirms out from underneath his heaving body, slick with sweat and-

He locks himself in the bathroom, and stares at the tiles, the grooves between them stretching wider until they’re canyons full of concrete and stilted sunlight, until they’re so big he thinks they might swallow him whole. 

There’s an indent of Skip’s watch on his wrist, skin raised and red. He prods at the skin hesitantly, thinks about how fitting it is, for the time to be branded on his wrist, how much of it belongs to the man who put it there. 

Peter figures there’s a metaphor to be found in that, but he falls asleep before he figures out what it is.

He dreams of time drowning him in bruises and the pity of angels.

 

* * *

 

He hasn’t been on patrol in a week, but when Ned asks about his black eye during Spanish, he spins a tale of a robber and a gun and a punch he couldn’t dodge in time. 

“Your life is so amazing,” his friend sighs. “I wish I could be you, even if it was just for a day.”

He resists the urge to say, “If you knew anything about May’s friend, you wouldn’t. You’d think I’m disgusting, and I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Instead, he forces a laugh, mumbles, “Yeah, right,”, and leaves it at that.

 

..........

 

Lunch is mostly silent. Peter’s just trying to choke down enough food to get him through the rest of the day. His feet seem to pass through the floor as he swings them, and his fingers curled around his fork feel unnatural. He’s not real, right now, but he’s trying to ignore that. 

Ned is studying for finals, which are almost here, and Peter should be studying too, his whole future depends on this, but... He finds he doesn’t much care about ‘trivial’ things like that anymore. So much has happened that a couple failed tests are nothing. 

Regardless, it’s not like he’s going to have much of a future anyway, given that he doesn’t exist; he’s just a ghost inhabiting flesh more akin to a tombstone.

“You look like shit.” MJ deadpans, eyes watching him warily. 

Peter’s too tired to deny the accusation. “Thanks.”

Her eyes flick down to his wrists, and he pulls his sleeves down, hiding the bruises peeking out. He focuses back on his food, because he’s hungry, not because he doesn’t want to meet MJ’s unwavering stare. 

“Stay safe, nerd.”

He offers her a small smile. “I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

Lab time with Tony feels surreal. 

He tries not to dissociate; he’d looked up his symptoms last night, and the internet told him that he was part of 2% of the population who experiences  _derealization_ and  _depersonalization_. (He tries not to think about how this is just another statistic to add onto his growing list.)

They tinker, for a while, but Peter can’t steady his hands long enough to grip onto the tools, so he watches Mr. Stark work instead.

The older man doesn’t comment, but he’s on the receiving end of numerous concerned glances. 

He knows that he should be talking by now, knows that it’s throwing the older man off. But his tongue sits in his mouth like mercury, and his teeth are tombstones grinding against each other. 

He’s afraid to try to speak, because he’s sure that nothing will come out if he does.

 

* * *

 

May sits him down, and asks him how he feels about Skip, and he doesn’t know what he says, but it must’ve been the right answer, because May looks  _so relieved_ , and  he can’t bear to tell her anything that the man has actually done. 

She says something along the lines of, “don’t think I’m replacing Ben, but...” and, “Skip and I have been talking, and we’re trying out a relationship,” and, “he’s so sweet, Peter.” 

His blood is roaring in his ears, and he wonders if he has a heart, because he can’t feel it beating, and he smiles, and nods, says, “Okay, I’m happy for you.”

Skip’s hand is on his shoulder, then, and he can’t really feel it, because he’s floating, and May looks so happy that he doesn’t flinch away, so he just sits there. 

Does nothing, just like he’s done since Skip has pulled out those magazines, and started touching him, and didn’t stop, even when he’d started to cry, and bleed, until it was three years later and something had cracked in his brain that had recently been patched up with band-aids and tree sap. 

Peter makes it to the shower, somehow, finds himself scrubbing his skin until it’s mottled purple with broken blood vessels and torn layers of skin. 

He doesn’t consider himself a religious person, that had died with Ben, but he thinks it almost feels like praying.

 

* * *

 

Peter comes over for dinner the next night, Tony’s invite, and the older superhero orders Chinese for dinner, Peter’s favorite. The teenager can only manage to take a couple bites, despite guilt settling heavy in his stomach over how much money had just been wasted on the meal. 

That’s where the man decides to draw the line, because he finally speaks up. “What’s wrong, kid?”

Peter gathers rice onto his fork before letting it drop back down to his carton. He shrugs. 

“Hey, thats not an answer.” Mr. Stark bumps his shoulder lightly with his own, and he flinched, which is  _so fucking stupid_ _because he knows that this is Mr. Stark_ , and now Tony is even more concerned and looking at him like a frightened animal and  _shit_ \- 

“‘M fine, Mr, Stark.” The words feel like ash, like concrete and secrets and  _help, I’m stuck, I can’t get out of here_. They do little to ease Iron Man’s conscious. 

“I don’t wanna push or anything, but kid-“ Tony looks exasperated, and kind of like he’s aged twenty years in the past couple seconds. “-something is going on.”

Peter shrugs again. “It’s nothing really. May’s new boyfriend Skip has just been hanging around the apartment a lot.” He looks down, shame over lying rising like acid in his throat. “It made me realize how much I miss Ben.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes soften, mistaking his guilt for grief. “Oh. I’m sorry, kid. I know he meant a lot to you. Its not easy, and I know this new ‘Skip’ guy- _what the fuck kind of name is that anyway_ -“ Peter chuckles at that, “will never replace Ben, but maybe it’ll be nice to have a potential father figure hanging around.”

Peter nods, even though his eyes are swimming with tears.  _I’ve already got one, and he’s sitting next to me._

When he gets back home, Skip pants around his shoulders, sweat warm and slick between their bodies, that Tony Stark is taking up too much of his time.

They make a deal; Peter keeps his ‘ _stupid fucking mouth shut_ ’, and he can keep seeing Mr. Stark on the weekends. 

He tries not to let a small part of himself resent his mentor for being a part of his complacency. 

A father doesn’t do what Skip does.

 

* * *

 

He has a test in Calculus. He spends the period trying to remember how to spell his own name.

The paper is turned in with ‘Einstein’ scribbled out at the top. It’s the only thing he’s written down.

 

* * *

 

Skip is there when he gets home from school. He’s always there, now.

May is there too, though, thank god. Or maybe not, because the two are curled up together on the couch, watching some sort of romantic movie, and the scene is so goddamn domestic that Peter thinks he might burst into tears. 

The handprints on his wrists ache, and welcoming the pain has never been anything he’s thought about before but now... now he thinks it might just be okay. Because he deserves it. Because he’s been a fuck up since  _mommy and daddy won’t be coming home_ , and he needs to feel holy, again. Maybe this can be his repentance. 

Besides, May is happy now, and god, he can’t take that away from her, he  _won’t_.

But he has to pass them on the way to his bedroom, but he doesn’t think he can handle May looking at him right now, doesn’t think he can handle anyone realizing he’s alive right now, doesn’t think-

Doesn’t think. 

 

* * *

 

It’s Friday. Which means it’s lab day, and he’s not at the lab, because if he was there, he wouldn’t be here, but he is. Which is, curled up in his closet- the only untainted place from  _hands_   he’s found so far- listening to Mr. Stark’s low baritone ramble about his day. He’s currently praising Dum-E for not spilling his coffee on the way over that morning, and Peter thinks that his mentor’s voice is the only thing keeping him present. 

Because if he isn’t present, he’s back under  _hands_ , or nine years old, or doesn’t exist at all. 

There’s a knock on his bedroom door, and Skip’s voice is  _so loud_  on the other side, and then the closet doors are opening and Peter has a brief thought that this is just another thing that’s been ruined by Skip Westcott (including himself, of course).

Peter sees Skip’s intention before he makes a move, the man’s eyes darting to the phone in his hands. 

Tony asks if he’s okay ( _he’s always been okay, when has he not been, Mr. Stark?_ ), and Peter already feels his body slipping away from him.

He tries to dodge, but the closet isn’t very big-  it’s too small _toosmall_ \- and the older man easily reaches over and grabs the phone from his hand. “Is this Tony Stark?”

Tony’s voice becomes more reminiscent of his alter ego. “Yes. Who is this?”

“Steven Westcott. May’s boyfriend.” Peter looks down at his hands, which he can’t feel, which _don’t exist_. “Why are you calling your intern at,” he looks down at his watch, that  _stupid fucking watch_ \- “9:00 p.m.?”

“Let me ask you a better question; why the fuck do you have my intern’s phone? Last I checked, he could speak for himself.”

Skip laughs, but it sounds so  wrong  to Peter’s ears, so fake and possessive. “Of course he can. I’m just worried about Einstein here, is all. He’s a special kid, needs his beauty sleep.”

“I agree, but-“

“So he should be sleeping. It’s a Friday night, he’s got better things to be doing than talking to his boss.”

Peter’s nails are back in the flesh on his palms, blood welling up to the surface of the newly-raised skin. He’d rather be with Mr. Stark than here. 

“And besides, isn’t it a little bit suspicious? A, what- 50 year old man?- hanging out with a sixteen year old?” Skip’s eyes are dark, lips curled up in a smirk. “People are gonna start to talk,  _Mr. Stark_.”

Peter’s eyes grow wide. He feels his mind become fuzzy around the edges, the world around him drowning itself in the blood he swore used to be in his empty,  _hollow_ , veins.  _Skip wouldn’t_ -

The older man splutters. “What- what the _fuck_ are you trying to imply?”

Skip ends the call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Idk how long this is, but I wrote the majority of it today at church lol. 
> 
> Shit is gonna go DOWN in the next chapter though. I know this one didn’t focus much on the repressed memories, but Peter’s getting whumped real bad right now, and he isn’t in the mindset to process both that and what is currently happening. I hope I sorta made that clear?
> 
> ALSO, when Skip was babysitting Peter, he was a senior in college. So like it’s not super weird that him and May are dating. I wasn’t going to make that happen initially, but i needed a reason for Skip to keep coming over, and it was the only convincing thing I could think of.
> 
> I should update soon, I’ve got the next chapter all planned out, I just have to actually write it.


	3. when only the headstones remember your name, you weep, darling. you weep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s panicking, he clearly doesn’t know what to do. “Pete- Peter,” he corrects, voice tinged with panic. “Its all going to be okay. I’m Iron Man, alright?” He tries to smile but even Peter can tell there’s no substance to it.  
> The man sobers slightly, anger set in the clench of his jaw. “He’s never fucking coming near you again. He’s not going to kill you, I won’t let that happen, but you need to calm down, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all. So I’m dumb and may have a concussion rn....  
> Yeahh I’m not supposed to be on any electronics but I wanted to get this chapter out so yeet.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> -Sexual assault/abuse of a minor (implied)  
> -Suicidal thoughts/ideation  
> -Suicide attempt (I guess, more like ideation but I’m putting it down)  
> -Bullying  
> -Violence typical of bullying and just like in general  
> -Anger  
> -Manipulation of a minor
> 
> Again, stay safe y’all.

    Tony left him twenty-six voicemails, and his missed call notifications had stopped showing up after the thirty-second.

Peter watches them appear from his position on the floor, Skip’s fist burying itself in his stomach for the fifth time. 

He thinks about violence, about the ineptitude of it all.

Skip slips off his belt, and there’s no more Peter left, just melted wax and hollow flesh.

He wonders if Icarus felt this empty as he fell. Wonders if he could still feel holy, under all that clay.

 

* * *

 

 

Halfway through Sophomore year, Flash Thompson had been kicked off the chess team for harassing a girl during a meeting. Contrary to popular belief, it was his favorite club, and he was good at it. Like, state championship good.

Peter wouldn’t have found this at all memorable, except for what had happened after. 

The teen who had tormented him since sixth grade had been livid, and, upon seeing his victim enter the bathroom, followed him inside. 

Peter had known that he hadn’t done anything, but Flash was angry, and he always got violent when that happened. 

Uncle Ben had told him (before  _blood_ and  _guns_ and  _muggers_ ) that bullies are more upset at themselves than their victims, and that sometimes they just needed to let some steam off. Peter had shrugged, agreed, but always wondered why he had to hurt to help someone else. 

These days, that’s all he seemed to do.

Flash had locked the door to the bathroom, and it had made Peter feel weird, in a trapped sort of way. Made his skin crawl, but he hadn’t known why at the time ( _Einstein-_ ).

The teen had promptly punched Peter in the face, panting out,  “God, just go  _kill yourself_ already.” 

He remembers the way Flash had looked him dead in the eyes, seemed to stare through the layers of his clothes, the filth festering in his chest. Remembers the fury in the bully, the bruises forming with a sharp aching restlessness. 

He’d softened his voice like they were sharing a secret, shoving the new superhero until his back had hit cement. “You’re a goddamn joke, you know. No parents, no uncle. It’s like you’re cursed or some shit.” Flash had laughed then, choked and spiteful. “You know how to stop the curse?” 

The other boy had leaned in then, forcing his spine to press further into the bathroom wall. “You end it. You  _leave_ , you fucking coward.  _God knows you look like you’d be happier dead anyway_.”

 

* * *

 

_“People take drastic measures when they’re mad, Peter. You can’t blame them for what they do while influenced by anger.”_

_“But Uncle Ben-“_

 

* * *

 

His bruises look like galaxies. He thinks about them swallowing him whole, drowning him in stomach acid and shame like Jonah. 

Skip left him in his bedroom, is talking to May about  _obedience_  and  _discipline_  and  _Pete’s been acting out lately_  in the kitchen. She agrees that something needs to be done. 

Peter stumbles to his bed and untucks his suit from under the mattress. Spider-Man puts it on, hands trembling, and launches himself off the fire escape.

_If a boy bows down to two different deities, and both agree that he is a problem to be managed, which god is he truly running away from?_

 

* * *

 

Peter had never realized how beautiful New York could be. 

He’s seen the worst of it, of course. Patrolling had opened his eyes to that, and even before that, life hadn’t been the easiest. 

The Parker’s weren’t rich. May was currently working two jobs just to make rent, and even when Ben was alive, they still barely put food on the table. Skip helped, but not by much. Peter had long grown used to going to sleep hungry.

Ben’s death had just solidified the bad that New York could bring. Even before him, muggings weren’t unusual. Peter himself, back when he was asthmatic and his eyes hid behind thick frames, would see a mugging at a corner store and turn away.

And of course there were the assaults, but... he was tired of thinking about those.

Which is why he was currently seated on one of the taller buildings in Queens, legs dangling against the sleek metal, staring out at the vast expanse of lights in front of him. 

_New York_ , he thinks absentmindedly,  _is the city full of stars_.  He thinks of blood pooling on the pavement, and his uncles firm baritone.  _And tombstones_.

He feels more present in his body, on top of this building. Feels like his skin drapes over his bones with just a little more familiarity. 

However, his mind feels vaguely detached. Not in a frenetic dissociative way, just... calm. Introspective. 

Absent.

The pavement below is starting to look more inviting, stretching out under his feet. All of his web canisters are off to the left, by the mask. He’d left his parachute in the lab with Mr. Stark, told the superhero he’d be fine without reinstalling it for a while.

Karen had told him a while ago that she was going to contact Tony if he stayed up here for longer than an hour. He’d taken the mask off then, split lip sticking to the fabric before separating with a flicker of pain. 

She’d definitely contacted the man by now, Peter heard his voice through the speaker, but... the phone call would bring his mind back from the calm serenity he had found.

_ Besides,  he would be here by now, if he actually cared. _

Peter shakes the thought away. He was stupid for thinking that the superhero had enough time in his day to pay attention to a fuck up like him. _He’s Tony_ _Stark, he has a company to run._

Another glance at the ground, and Flash pressing him up against the wall flashes in his minds eye. 

He might  _leave_ , tonight. There’s no rush, though. He’s got until dawn.

Right now he just wants to look at the stars.

 

* * *

 

“ _Peter_.”  Mr. Stark’s voice is comprised of silk, the double-edge sword of relief. The Iron Man suit retracts, and the man himself stumbles out, eyes wide. “ _God_. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

The younger superhero remains where he is, eyes fixed on the pavement below. He shrugs, says, “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Tony takes a few hesitant steps forward. “I did though.” His breath is shaky, Peter can hear it stuttering in his chest. “You wanna come off the edge so we can talk?”

Peter shakes his head slowly. “Not- not really.” His fingers bunch up the fabric around his wrists. “Sorry,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. 

“Okay.” He takes another step forward. “Can I sit down?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, too preoccupied with how his hands ( _hands-_ ) don’t feel like his own anymore. Mr. Stark must take it as a yes, because suddenly there’s a body next to his.

The older man brushes his shoulder with his own, and Peter flinches. Too tired to make an excuse, he whispers, “Please don’t touch me.”

Tony immediately recoils, moves a few inches to the right. “Oka- Yeah. Okay. Whatever you need, kid.”

They sit in silence for a while, watching the city dancing beneath their shoes.

“What’s going on, Pete?” Mr. Stark’s voice is soft, concerned. 

Peter clenches his teeth. “Don’t- don’t call me that. Please. I just-“ He takes a couple breaths. “He-  _he_  calls me that.”

Tony’s breath catches, before he hesitantly asks, “Who calls you that?”

He’s trembling now, but he can’t really notice, too focused on his wrists, on the bruises he’s covering up. “S-Skip.”

He knows he shouldn’t be telling Mr. Stark any of this, knows that Skip will be mad-  _so mad_ \- but... Peter is tired. It’s exhausting, being so scared all the time. 

And part of him wants his childhood superhero to swoop in, save the day, damn what Skip thinks.

But if he told- Skip might hurt May. Might never let him see Mr. Stark again. Might kill him ( _not like that would be too ba-_ ). Might never stop  _touching_  him. 

Tony brings his focus back, eyes drowning in concern. “Is that... is that a bad thing?”

The younger boy nods so vigorously that he ends up moving a couple inches forward, closer to the edge. He doesn’t bother moving back. 

This, coupled with his answer, has the worry in Mr. Stark’s gaze doubling tenfold. “Okay,” He nods, nervously. “okay. You wanna- wanna back up, kid- Peter?” He chuckles, but it’s more anxiety than anything else. “Not gonna lie, you’re scaring me a little bit.”

Peter hesitates, but acquiesces. He doesn’t like making Tony upset, and moving is something that he can do to ease the man’s mind. 

He exhales, relieved. “Okay, okay. Good. Thank you.”

Peter smiles tightly, going back to fiddling with his sleeves. 

There’s another period of silence, Tony clearly wrestling with something, before: “Is-“ he swallows, hard. “Has Skip ever... hurt you, Peter?”

The boy in question freezes, eyes wide.

Mr. Stark continues, noting the new tension. “It’s just... after that phone call. What he said. And now...” he pauses. “You haven’t been yourself in  _months_.”

Peter can’t seem to catch his breath, starting to hyperventilate now. “No. _No_. He- he hasn’t done  _anything_.  Please. You have to believe me.” 

He knows Tony doesn’t, knows that he’s lying through his teeth, but... he  _can’t_. Skip will  _kill_ him. He’d rather die on his own terms, if that’s how this has to end.

Tony’s voice is gentle. “Kid...” He looks like he wants to hug him, but seems to put what Peter wants first, and he appreciates that. “I’ve seen the bruises.”

Peter goes ice cold, mind going blank. His voice comes out strangled, caught in his throat. “ _Tony_  - _"_

The man doesn’t give him a chance to interrupt. “I thought it was from patrol, you know? Just a couple muggers who got lucky. But,” he swallows, “Karen said that this is the first time you’ve put your suit on in over a month.”

Peter is adamantly shaking his head. “Flash-“

“-Hasn’t touched you in weeks. MJ called me yesterday, told me if I was hurting you she’d kick my ass, superhero or not.”

Peter’s definitely dissociating now, and he doesn’t exist anymore, he’s not real  _not real_. Thinks about just throwing himself off the building, knows Skip is gonna kill him now anyway. 

There’s nothing he can say now to convince Tony that he’s wrong, because he’s not.

Peter is shaking, he can’t feel it but he knows he is, and Mr. Stark is staring at him and _pitying_ him and-

“Peter, _hey_.” He  starts to reach for the boy, but pulls his hand back quickly. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s okay. Just breathe, kid. Please. _You’re_ _okay_.”

He’s got his eyes closed, and all he knows is  _hands_   and he can’t breathe or think or move and  _he feels like he’s dying_.“ No,  no, _no, no_ , _please_ Mr. Stark.  _He’ll kill me_ , I can’t, I can’t  _I can’t-_ “

His fingers brush his face, and he flinches at his own touch (stupid, _stupid_ ), but his hands are wet now and he distantly wonders when he started crying. He can’t look Mr. Stark in the eye.

Tony’s panicking, he clearly doesn’t know what to do. “ _Pete_ \- Peter,” he corrects, voice tinged with panic. “Its all going to be okay. I’m Iron Man, alright?” He tries to smile but even Peter can tell there’s no substance to it. The man sobers slightly, anger set in the clench of his jaw. “He’s never _fucking_ coming near you again. He’s not going to kill you, I won’t let that happen, but you need to calm down, okay?” 

Peter tries to breathe, tries to convince his mind that Mr. Stark knowing about Skip isn’t a bad thing. Instead, his breathing hitches, and he just... stops. Stops taking in air. Stops inhaling.

If anything, Tony looks more scared now. “Kid, _kid_ \- come on, you’ve gotta breathe.” 

Peter always finds a way to fuck everything up though, so he doesn’t. 

His lungs are burning, turning into ash and cigarette smoke ( _Ben, you know I hate it when you smoke. It’s not good for Peter!_ ). 

He’d rather suffocate than let any of the filth that he holds inside his chest touch Tony.

 

* * *

 

He must’ve passed out, or stopped existing, or lost himself again, like always, or-

Peter Parker wakes up ( _is it really waking up if-_ ) in the Avengers Compound. He’s seated at a counter, presumably in Tony’s suite somewhere. The polished granite in front of him looks like it’s never been used before. He counts the grooves in the rock, trying to remember how he got off the roof. Where the last hour went. 

Tries not to think about repressed memories, how his childhood had felt so empty, so full of cobwebs ( _and spiders, don’t forget the spiders-_ ). How not remembering always led to filth and bad and rot and-

Ever since the spider bite, his senses have been haywire; dialed up to eleven, most of the time. Right now, though... everything is muted. Slowed down.

Mr. Stark is on the phone, pacing around the couch. He’s angry, livid, and Peter can’t help but flinch.

Skip is angry, Flash is angry, Mr. Stark is angry. Anger leads to violence leads to yelling leads to pain leads to  _you can’t blame them for what they do while influenced by anger_. 

He’s shaking again. Tony Stark knows anger like the cavern in his chest where the arc reactor sits. Peter thinks that it must feel like palladium poisoning, seeping into white blood cells and red blood cells, slowly shutting off the brain until there’s no logic. Like shrapnel grating against tender heartstrings, only kept at bay for so long.

Tony must realize that he’s aware, because the man is hovering over him now, repeating his name like he can hear it, like it doesn’t just sound like a muffled shadow. 

Peter wants to sleep, he’s so tired, and he thinks he just might be safe now, so he does.

Leaves Tony, and all his anger, to catch him.

And maybe there’s a metaphor in that, too.

 

* * *

 

_“Ben, you can’t tell him that.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“It’s not true! People are accountable for their own actions. God, you’re teaching him to let people get away with hurting him!”_

_“Well maybe the kid just needs to learn to stick up for himself. If he can’t defend himself, who’s going to?”_

_“The people who love him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Tony knows something is up now. He knows that Skip has been hurting Peter, but Peter hasn’t told him exactly how yet (that’s comin up next chapter folks).
> 
> Let’s just pretend like I’ll have the next chapter up fairly quickly lol. It shouldn’t be too long, but I am concussed and I’m going on vacation next week so idk how much I’ll be able to write.
> 
> You guys commenting literally makes me want to write this fic. Like seriously, every single comment I get makes me so freakin happy, thank you guys so much. 
> 
> I love y’all, see you next time.


	4. if you asked him, icarus would swear apollo’s laugh still haunts him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man sits down on the bed and cradles his head in his hands. “‘M sorry.”
> 
> He says something else, mouth moving with a semblance of language, but all he hears is muffled echos.
> 
> Peter shakes his head, forces his vocal chords to build monasteries. “It’s not-“ he inhales, clenches his fist, “not your fault.”
> 
> Tony scoffs, sardonic. “I still didn’t notice what was going on. Could’ve stopped it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, I‘m not dead, yeet.
> 
> Sorry for not getting this out sooner, I’ve been super busy and unmotivated.
> 
> This one is shorter but like also I struggled writing it and I wasn’t satisfied so here’s what I felt the best about posting. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> \- referenced sexual abuse of a minor  
> \- sexual abuse  
> \- this one’s heavy on the dissociation folks  
> \- implied/referenced suicide attempt  
> \- implied/referenced/just straight up self harm
> 
> If there’s anything else please let me know. 
> 
> Again, please don’t read if you’re going to be triggered, I’d rather you guys be safe.

      _Icarus touched the sun. Laid a palm flat against its surface, and watched layers of his flesh burn off._

_ He fell, and it was as if the whole world was screaming with him. _

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes up thirty-seven hours later, tucked into Mr. Starks bed. The covers are soft- definitely a high thread count- and it smells like him, all engine grease and coffee grounds. 

The man himself is asleep in an armchair next to the bed, and Peter can’t think of a reason why he would be in a chair instead of in his bed, except for what Skip said on the phone and-

_Fuck_.

Tony knew. Not about  _hands_ , but that something had been going on and did May know did his mentor think less of him _what if he never got to go home because May was disgusted at him for letting this happen-_

Peter holds his breath as limbs shift across from him; an arm unconsciously moving to a new position against cotton, a mind working overtime, even in the depths of sleep.

He thinks that he might know how that feels, having a combusting galaxy trapped inside your brain. Mind never quiet enough to succumb to rest.

Peter watches Iron Man wake up, the man’s eyes flickering and fingers curling around his worn AC-DC t-shirt. 

When their eyes meet, Tony jolts awake, memories seeming to crash into him all at once. “Peter!”

The younger teen offers him a small smile. “Hi.”

His father figure’s lips twitch up, and for a moment, Peter pretends that everything is normal. That he just fell asleep while working in the lab and spent the night, that Skip never came back, that... that he’s not as broken as he really is. 

Then Mr. Stark’s face falls, and Peter knows that he can’t pretend that this isn’t happening ( _can’t pretend that_ ‘Skip, please stop, that hurts’ _never happened_ ).

“How’re you doing, kid?”

Peter clenches his eyes shut, exhales. “I’m fine.”

Tony must reach over, because he feels a hand touch his knee, and he can’t help but flinch at the contact, curling into himself.

The teen opens his eyes as he pulls his hand away, cradling it in his lap. 

“Sorry.” The billionaire’s voice is the softest he’s ever heard it. “Forgot that you didn’t want to be touched right now.”

“It’s okay.”

They sit in silence, for a while. Peter fiddles with his sleeves, trying to keep his chest from becoming a cavern deeper than the Grand Canyon.

“I think we should go down to the med-bay.”

Peter’s hand twitches. He shakes his head wordlessly.

Tony sighs softly. “Can I at least have FRIDAY scan you? Make sure you’re not dying?”

He thinks of blood drying down his thighs, of his ribs that protest even now, after giving his body time to heal. Of all of his nebulas and shattered stars.

He shakes his head again.

The older man pins him with a perplexed gaze, and Peter wilts, mutters, “I don’t want you to know what he did to me.”

Mr. Stark gapes, and he can’t help but realize that this is the first time he has seen the man rendered speechless. 

Tony Stark is a man comprised of language, and stealing the words from his molecules must feel like dying, he thinks. Like fabricating a ghost that only haunts the spaces between misplaced syllables. 

Peter wonders if he’d feel the same way, if someone stripped the trauma from his DNA. Half-formed, chest heaving with unrequited nostalgia. A specter haunting his own flesh and bone fragments.

Peter Parker knows, like breathing, that trauma is his catalyst. It’s been ingrained in him since his parents left, and taking it away would leave him... he doesn’t know where, but he hopes it’s in the stars.

“Oh, _kid_.” Tony breathes, and the teen has to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep his emotions at bay.

“I-“ He scrubs his face with his sleeve, tears already pooling- _‘you’re even prettier than you were back then, god.’_ \- and bites his lip, hard. “I don’t- don’t want you to h-hate me.” 

His voice breaks, and he curls his fingers in his hair at the confession; tugs at the strands until pain laces through the skin beneath.

Tony looks wrecked; face pale, he looks two seconds away from joining Peter in crying. “ _Kid_ \- Peter, I would _never_.” He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know if Westcott gave you that idea, or if it was a Peter Parker original,” Peter chuckles wetly at that, “but it will never be true. I could not imagine a world in which I was capable of hating you.”

His heart clenches at the sentiment, and it’s too much, it’s too much-

He can’t-

_‘I can’t breathe Skip, please-‘_

_‘It’s okay, Einstein. Hold still. Just let me-‘_

Peter watches himself touch the sun and turn to scorching wax and metal fragments. Watches himself stop below, a specter haunting a living tombstone.

He lets the tide swallow him, drag him out of his body, lungs full of sea foam and red clay.

He hopes the city of stars will be there to catch him.

 

* * *

  

_Here’s what they don’t tell you:_

_Icarus landed in the sea, among all of the sediment and twisting metal._

_He did not die._

* * *

 

Tony confesses, years later, that watching him shut down so suddenly had been one of the scariest moments of his life.

The life had just... left him, all at once. He’d slumped down, eyes open, but unseeing. Hollow.

Peter doesn’t remember ( _cobwebs and spiders cobwebsand spiders cobwebsandspidersand_ -) anything that happened for the next sixteen hours or so, and whenever he asks, everyone averts their eyes. 

His wrists are swathed in bandages and gauze, and he has a pretty good idea, regardless. He doesn’t try to ask again.

He tells Tony about the dissociating, though. It seems only fair.

Mr. Stark wants to know what happened with Skip. Mr. Stark says he’s worried about what would push him that far. Mr. Stark says he needs to know to put Skip in jail.

Peter can’t speak when he asks. He’s afraid all of the rot and filth will crawl up his throat if he tries. 

So he points to his hands, and Tony doesn’t understand. He points to his mouth, his wrists, his thighs. The hollow cavern in his chest, the remnants of iron and wax on his shoulders.

Mr. Stark says he needs to say it out loud, like that will make it real, like that will make his abuse manifest around his body like a second skin. Like that will show him everywhere Steven Westcott has put his hands on him.

Like he needs to prove that it’s true.

* * *

 

He texts MJ. She’s at the tower in seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds ( _the watch branded-_ ).

She spends twenty-three seconds staring at him, and knows everything (she _understands_ and he hates that she does). She hugs him while they both cry.

He lets her tell Tony while he sits in the shower, turrets of water crashing down around him. He stares at his wrists, the dark red lines marring the skin on both, and tries to remember. The water goes cold, and he stays in until FRIDAY alerts him that if he doesn’t get out then she will notify her boss.

More time passes. He lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling. Recites the elements on the periodic table in order, even though remembering anything is becoming difficult.

Iron Man comes in the room with bloody knuckles and red-rimmed eyes.

Peter thinks he looks angry, and _anger leads to violence leads to yelling leads to-_

But-

The man sits down on the bed and cradles his head in his hands. “‘M sorry.”

He says something else, mouth moving with a semblance of language, but all he hears is muffled echos.

Peter shakes his head, forces his vocal chords to build monasteries. “It’s not-“ he inhales, clenches his fist, “not your fault.”

Tony scoffs, sardonic. “I still didn’t notice what was going on. Could’ve stopped it.”

He exhales sharply, lets out a soft, hurt keen. “ _No._  Tony, I- I didn’t want you to know. If anything,” He scratches at his wrist absentmindedly, and the superhero shoots him a look until he stops. “...if anything, it was my fault.”

Mr. Stark’s jaw goes slack. “The _fuck_?”

The teen rushes to explain. “Well I let him do it! I’ve got super strength, and I just... i couldn’t _move_! If I’d fought back he would’ve stopped, but I didn’t, so it’s my fault.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Besides, it wasn’t _as bad_ , before.”

He can see Tony’s blood run cold as he freezes. The superhero lets out a strangled, “ _What_?”

Peter feels his hands go fuzzy. He glances up, expecting to see the bottom of a bunk-bed. His mouth feels detached from the rest of him. “He used to be my babysitter. Started around 8, I think.”

* * *

 

During World War II, the Allies tested napalm bombs to use against the Japanese. 

The bombs themselves caused a big explosion of shrieking shrapnel and fire, but this was not what the soldiers had to fear. 

It was always the moment afterwards.

The fire used up so much oxygen that it would wrench the air from your lungs, steal the last bit of life from all of your alveoli.

The thing about breathing, is that it is reflexive. No matter how harmful the circumstances, you will always breathe back in. 

The air entering your lungs is superheated, all ash and fire and supernova. It burns your lungs from the inside out.

This is the last breath you ever take.

 

 

Tony looks as though someone took a vacuum to his chest cavity, and Peter wonders when Skip Westcott became a napalm bomb.

 

* * *

 

Tony asks him questions. Peter answers the ones he can find the truth in. The man looks nauseous after each response.

Tony says he’s going to put Skip in jail for a very long time. Peter wonders what will happen if the lawyers decide that his case is too much work ( _the US legal system is shit at cases like this, Peter knows_ ).

Tony wants to tell May. Peter shakes his head, but he calls her anyway, tells her to come to the tower. 

Tony asks if he can give him a hug, and Peter lets him, because the man looks like he needs it. 

Tony... doesn’t hate him.

_Tony doesn’t hate him._

 

* * *

 

_Icarus claws his way to the surface, takes a breath of fresh air-_

 

* * *

 

Aunt May arrives in a cacophony of motion.

He kind of wants her to be silent, but thinks that might be worse. May, like Ned, is comprised of bolster and noise and movement. For either of them, silence would signify destruction of the self.

Tony sits him down in front of the T.V. and turns on Star Wars IV, steaming hot chocolate on the counter in front of him. 

He brings May to another room, hears the superhero tell her, in no uncertain terms, about the monster that has been living in her apartment.

Peter is sure that her screams could make New York fall.

She storms back out to the living room, heads for the elevator, tells Mr. Stark that she’s going to kill Skip.

She’s livid, and pacing, and now she’s angry _angryangryangry_ -

He’s curled up, hands over his ears, tears running down his cheeks, before Tony calms her down. 

They try to touch him, and he flinches further into the couch, has a flashback so bad that he calls out for Uncle Ben.

And that is why May finds out how long Skip has been _touching_ him.

And that is how long ( _wristwatch_ -) it takes for FRIDAY to alert them that Skip is in the lobby downstairs.

 

* * *

 

_-and crashes back under the water, air ripped from his lungs by the turning tide._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave tony a fucking heart attack with this one :)


	5. the past sticks in your hair like stray dandelion seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy is still crying, arms clenched around his stomach, curled up on his bed.
> 
> Spider-Man decides the police can handle Judy. Peter Parker goes over to the boy, helps him back into his pants, sits down a respectable distance on the bed. He knows from personal experience what touch can do after something as monumental as this.
> 
> “It’s okay, I’m here now.” His voice is soft. “Can you tell me your name?”
> 
> The boy wipes his face, smearing snot all over the sleeve of his shirt. “T-Tony.”
> 
> Peter closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion. It’s only fair that things happen to each of them in turn. Hands hurts 400,000 children born a year in the US. Peter Parker may be a statistic, but his Tony is not. This one though, is, and.. this one he can help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, y’all! 
> 
> I know this took forever to update. I’ve really got no excuse other than that college started and I’ve been highkey stressed lol
> 
> Thank all of you sooo much for all the comments and kudos. I love all of you guys so much, and i cant stress enough how much I appreciate all of you for reading this. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
> 
> That being said lol:
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> \- Sexual Abuse of a minor  
> \- Semi-graphic scenes of sexual assault of a minor  
> \- References to anxiety, triggers, and panic attacks  
> \- Violence  
> \- Description of Injury  
> \- Talk of/threat of murder  
> \- Implied torture  
> \- SUICIDE/SEMI-GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF SUICIDE  
> \- Implied\referenced self-harm
> 
> If I missed anything, please let me know. Again, if reading this could be triggering, I’d advise not reading it. I’d rather y’all be safe than read this.

      _Peter Parker had always been a lonely kid._

_      It was just a fact. He went to school, sat by himself, read books by himself, rode the bus to the library by himself. _

_      The boy preferred it, honestly. It was easier than trying to interact with his peers- they were all too immature for him. None of them understood advanced chemistry like he did, so talking to them about the things he found interesting was very boring. _

_      This had all changed when Skip Westcott moved into the apartment three doors down from the Parker residence. _

 

* * *

 

     Peter gasps for breath, chest heaving. “ _He’s here_? Why is-“

     May clenches her fist, eyes closing with an emotion the teen can’t recognize. “I told him I was coming here. _Shit_.”

     Tony puts a hand on her back in a gesture of comfort. “We weren’t exactly clear why you needed to come over on the phone. It makes sense that you would tell him where you were going.” 

     Peter focuses on his palms, on how they tremble, curled around each other. He hopes the adults don’t notice how his nails are digging into the back of his hand.

     Mr. Stark tells FRIDAY to bring Skip up to them. The younger hero thinks that it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t say this out loud.

     Peter is ushered into Tony’s bathroom, legs quivering. The man tells him to hide, that he’ll be okay so long as he stays put. 

He nods, tastes ash; spits into the toilet, expects it to be grey. Or red.

It comes out clear, and his knees go weak with surprise. 

Mr. Stark looks like he wants to cry, has an expression that Peter can’t quite decipher. Instead, he closes the door.

     He lays down in the bathtub, and folds his hands over his ears. Hears Skip in the other room, talking. Hears them all screaming, after a while. 

     The predator’s voice though, is the loudest.

     He removes a hand, clenches it over his mouth, and-

 

* * *

 

      _“Come on Einstein, where are you? I just want to play our fun game!”_

_Peter Parker may be nine years old, but he knows a lot. He knows algebra, although that has been tainted by a teenager with white hair, now. He knows how to take apart a radio with his bare hands and put it back together again._

_And he knows like the periodic table he’d memorized with Ben last year that breathing too loudly will result in his best friend finding him and then hurting him, just like he had yesterday._

_Or maybe ex-best friend. As far as he knows, friends don’t hurt each other like that._

_Or maybe they do. It’s not like Peter would know. Before Skip, he’d never had a friend. He’d heard May talking to Ben about it, how he never brought any friends home. She had been worried, but the young boy hadn’t been very concerned._

_Was he lonely? Sure. But he’d preferred existing by himself. He was content with learning all he could about science and math- he wanted to be just like Tony Stark one day!_

_But that was before Skip. The young adult had been interested him him- in_ him _! That never happened, with_ anybody _._

_The man had moved in a couple of apartments down, and immediately took a liking to the young boy. His aunt and uncle had been suspicious, of course, but when they saw how comfortable their nephew had become with the young adult, they slowly grew to trust him._

_Skip had started babysitting him- after Aunt May and Uncle Ben had deemed him appropriate for the job, of course- and suddenly... he wasn’t alone. The loneliness crept away, faded, and suddenly Peter had a friend. A best friend, as the man had proclaimed them to be._

_And then yesterday had happened._

_He’d wanted to play with his Avenger’s figures. He was always Iron Man, of course. He was the coolest, even though Tony Stark was cooler._

_Skip was Black Widow, whenever they played with the toys. He always said that she was “the prettiest avenger”, and then asked, “have you have had a crush on anyone, Einstein?”_

_He’d responded in the negative. He mainly just thought that girls were gross, and he told his friend as much. Skip had laughed, told him, “maybe you’re gay, Einstein,” made a face that Peter couldn’t figure out, and then left it at that._

_When he’d suggested playing with the figures this time, however, Skip had refused. He told the younger boy that they always played what he wanted, and it had made Peter feel awful- had he really never thought about what the other boy wanted to do? Was he really that bad of a friend?_

_So when Skip had pulled out the magazine- the one with all the gross pictures- and suggested that they copy the figures... Peter didn’t say no._ He hadn’t actually said no. _Even though he’d never been more afraid of anything._

_Not even the social worker who came by to talk to him when mommy and daddy had gone away and never came back. Not even breaking his arm on the jungle gym at school and having to go to the emergency room where it was bright and chaotic and he just wanted to lay down but he couldn’t because his arm hurt so bad._

_It hadn’t hurt as much as Skip’s ‘game’, though._

_But tonight, May and Ben had a date night, and Skip had to babysit, and Peter was curled up in the bathtub, hand clenched over his mouth. If he made any noise than Skip would find him and he would_ hurt _him and the young boy didn’t think he could handle that again._

_Fear creeps up his throat, and he wipes tears away with his sleeve. The boy hears the footsteps coming closer, and has to silence a gasp._

     He didn’t remember to lock the door. 

 

* * *

 

     He clambers out of the bathtub, and leaves the bathroom; walks out into the main living room. He’s floating, but that’s okay, because floating is better than fear. Floating is better than acknowledging any act that has been committed by the person who abused him.

     Skip is on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, arm twisted at a weird angle. He doesn’t look real. Granted, nothing does, but the man laid out in front of him looks nothing like himself.

     The teen blinks, tries to clear the fog laid out in front of him.

     His face is ashen and pale; he is afraid, and, in this moment, Peter cannot see the monster in him anywhere.

     This is a man, who is showing every part of himself but the evil intent; and Peter knows that this too, is a facade. Skip Westcott may be a man, but there is something rotten and dark expanding inside him, and no amount of humanity could snuff that out.

     He will never see this man as any less than the person who made his life hell for what felt like eons.

     When Tony, about to, once again, physically assault the man below him, sees the younger boy, he freezes. Almost in slow motion, his eyes drift down to Skip, just as the pedophile spots Peter.

     The teenager feels the gaze slide over his body, even now glazed over with what must be want, and the fear slams back into him, all at once. Tombstones rise out of his wisdom teeth, and rot crawls up his throat and coats his tongue. 

     Skip leers. “Hey, _Einstein_.”

     Tony grabs and consequently shakes the front of his shirt roughly. “ _Hey_ , eyes up here, asshole.” He glances back over at Peter. “Kid, go back to the bathroom. I’m handling this.”

     Peter feels himself shake his head, voice climbing out of his esophagus. “I wanna- _need to_ \- be here.” His hands are shaking. Balling them up in his sleeves, he continues, “It-it was his fault. What he did. To me.” He inhales sharply. “He- _yeah_. I- can I stay?”

     Surprise echos across all of the adult’s faces. May speaks up, “You’re right honey, _of course_ you’re right, but... are you sure you want to be here to watch Tony-“

     The man in question interrupts, gauntlet forming around his wrist. “Just give me the word, kid, and I’ll kill him. Right here and now.”

     Peter swallows, hard. Wishes he weren’t still half-dissociating. Wishes that the superhero hadn’t asked him to decide. Wishes that some part of him deep down didn’t want to tell Tony to murder his old babysitter.

     He almost says yes. Hesitates far too long. 

     Long enough for Mr. Stark to clench his fist, and Skip Westcott, for the first time in what must be his entire life, to have the fear of god put into him by a child.

     But he shakes his head, like he knew he was always going to. “No, I- no. I want him to regret it.” He swallows, smiles as much as his stiff mouth will allow. “Death would be a mercy to him.”

 

* * *

 

      _One time, Skip comes over to babysit while May is still home. It’s been a year and a half since hands started._

_She’s working on filling out paperwork on the couch. She raises a glass of wine to her lips, drinks half of it in one long drag. It’s her third glass of the evening._

_In front of the television, the youngest Parker and his babysitter are playing with action figures._

_Skip Westcott is always the Black Widow._

_They watch Star Wars. Skip makes dinner. Skip is polite. Skip keeps a three foot minimum distance between them._

_May’s eyes start to slide closed._

_When she falls asleep, the young boy is laid down on the ground, his clothes pulled off, socks kept on._

_The carpet digs into his bare skin, and he tries not to cry, but the water rolls down his cheeks anyways. The older boy hushes him quietly. “May’s worked so hard today. You don’t want to wake her up, do you?”_

_Peter lets out a quiet sob. He can see her socks, three feet away, glasses halfway down her face. “N-no.”_

_Skip caresses his hipbones. “Good boy.”_

_For years after, he tries not to resent May for not opening her eyes._

 

* * *

 

     Tony sends Skip to the Raft.

     He tells Ross, in no uncertain terms, that the moment Skip regrets what he did, to contact him.

     Once the man apologized to his surrogate son, he would make sure the man remembers what he did for the rest of his long, pathetic life. He’s hell bent on this pedophile who had _touched his fucking kid_ becoming the exact implications of the phrase “shell of a man”.

     He never gets the chance.

     Sixteen days after he lands on the deck, Steven “Skip” Westcott commits suicide. He takes a gun from one of the guards, places the barrel against his temple, and pulls the trigger. 

     When Peter Parker finds out, he doesn’t leave his bed for three days. 

     He wonders why he never got closure. Curses god, as though he believes that she even cares about anything anymore. Asks the angels why they would grant any mercy to a man such as that. 

     He watches his stomach cave in, watches tombstones climb out of his skin in its place.

     Mostly though, he cries.

 

* * *

 

      _Skip Westcott had just moved to the other side of the country._

_Well, maybe not the whole other side, but Colorado is basically there. Denver, Colorado was 1,796.6 miles away from Queens, New York, and that was far enough, in Peter’s opinion._

_The moment the older man’s car had left his sight, the young boy collapsed on his bed, hands shaky and wrists red from his second (_ and probably not last _) shower that day._

_Peter was almost twelve years old, and he was never going to see Skip again._

_The relief hits him so hard that he spends the next month in a daze, and the memories start to slip away like cascading asphalt._

_He starts to wonder if any of it was real. Every day he debates the validity of what happened, wonders if he just read the situation wrong, if the older adult had even_ touched _him at all. The feel of skin on skin, the way Skip’s hair fell over his face as it was drenched in sweat, all something he must have dreamt._

_There’s no way anything like that could’ve ever happened to him._

_He wakes up two months later, can’t remember if Skip’s hair was white or blond or brown. Six months, and doesn’t remember Skip’s name._

_A year, and the past four have been removed entirely._

 

* * *

     He still has nightmares. Some of them are about hands. Others about Mr. Stark or May or Ned or MJ as kids, Skip hovering over them. 

     He still dreams of homecoming, the collapsing building, his parents gravestones.

     Most of them are about chasing empty voids where sunlight and ichor used to taunt him. Honey, and dandelion seeds, smeared over his skin, trying to catch the last semblance of innocence that he has left. Capturing a mass of dark matter, mouth full of old coins, copper sliding past his lips and down his thighs.

     Those nights scare him the most, he thinks. 

     On those nights, he never wakes up screaming.

 

* * *

 

     New York feels cooler, this time of year. Winter had crept up on New York like always; frost claiming what little room to breathe resided within its heart. 

     The Spider-Man suit, sans the heater, does little to keep out the chill. Peter keeps the added extension of the suit off though- the cold tells him that he’s alive, and days like this he needs the reminder. 

     Peter, looking back on this moment, can’t remember when his intuition spiked, lead him to turn south instead of east. 

     He doesn’t remember a lot of things. Still can’t remember a lot of what happened when he was younger, or in the past year.

     Mr. Stark lets him know that it’s okay. The older superhero’s been reading books on child development and trauma. 

     Peter still doesn’t know why he goes through all the trouble of helping him.

     Tony had wrapped an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders, and assured him that, “Sometimes, you need to protect yourself, and that’s okay.”

     He’s trying to believe that. He had told Mr. Stark that the cobwebs hid spiders, and he understood that, but sometimes the fly needs to know when it’s going to get caught again. 

     The man had scoffed, “Well, the fly knows a beetle that’s always there to save him.”

     Peter had smiled, at that. 

     Regardless, early winter in New York catches snow like dandelion seeds, and the young superhero is out on patrol and headed south, based purely on the way his added sense sends shivers down his spine. 

     He launches a web, propels himself forward. Watches the ground get closer, and closer, until Karen alerts him that he’s in danger. It’s not until he almost hits the ground that he shoots another web, hoists himself back up among the skyscrapers. 

     The exhilaration feels like breathing, again.

     His ‘spidey-sense’ throbs, and he makes out a little boy, yelling. 

     Adrenaline races down his spine, and he stops messing around with shooting and jumping, tries to get to the small voice as fast as he can.

     The sounds are coming from an apartment, and he breaks the window, silently apologizing for the broken glass. From personal experience, those cost a lot of money to replace, and Peter knows that living in an apartment like this means that the funds to fix it won’t come cheap.

     But he’s gotta save this kid. That will always come before property damage.

     Peter won’t deny that what comes next sends him reeling.

     There’s a small boy, definitely under the age of ten, underneath a female teenager. The younger of the two’s pants and underwear ( _spider-man themed, which breaks his fucking heart_ ) are pooled around his ankles, and there are tears streaming down his face.

     The young boy sobs. “Judy, get off! I don’t like this very much!”

     ( _Skip, stop, please! I don’t want to play this game anymore!_ )

     “ _Hey_ , get the _fuck_ off of him!” Spider-Man roars, and the teen, presumably Judy, jolts up, takes one look at him, and sprints for the door.

     He makes to go after her, needs to get this kid justice, needs to stop this from _becoming another cobwebs and spiders nightmare-_

     The boy is still crying, arms clenched around his stomach, curled up on his bed.

     Spider-Man decides the police can handle Judy. Peter Parker goes over to the boy, helps him back into his pants, sits down a respectable distance on the bed.  He knows from personal experience what touch can do after something as monumental as this.

     “It’s okay, I’m here now.” His voice is soft. “Can you tell me your name?”

     The boy wipes his face, smearing snot all over the sleeve of his shirt. “T-Tony.”

     Peter closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion. It’s only fair that things happen to each of them in turn. _Hands_ hurts 400,000 children born a year in the US. Peter Parker may be a statistic, but his Tony is not. This one though, is, and.. this one he can help. 

     “Okay, okay, its okay Tony. You’re okay.”

     The boy nods jerkily.

     “How old are you?”

     The child sitting in front of him is nine years old, and he has to glance away, because looking at this kid is like looking in a fun-house mirror.

     Peter takes a breath, asks hesitantly, “Can you tell me who Judy is?”

     A few more tears break free and slide down Tony’s face. “My baby-babysitter. Mommy and Daddy are, are out tonight.”

     Peter feels himself tense up, instinctively. “Okay, okay. Can you t-tell me what happened tonight?”

     Tony nods, hesitantly. “I always liked Judy, you know? We’d watch T.V. and play games during the dumb commercials.” He huffs out a laugh, and Peter nods, telling him to go on. “She’d always let me stay up super late and watch any show I wanted. But tonight...” the boy sniffs, once again pawing at his face. “I asked if we could watch Star Wars, ‘cause it’s my favorite, and then she started tickling me. She-she said that we could only watch if I took my cl-clothes off.”

     Peter has the urge to get into his own bed, and hide forever. Spider-Man decides that that’s a stupid decision. He has to help this kid, first.

     He slowly stands up. “I’m going to call your parents. You need to tell them what you just told me, okay?”

     The young boy shakes his head, fast. “I-I don’t wanna. _Please-_ “

     The older teen takes a seat on the floor, below the trembling child, as not to intimidate him. “Tony... it’s your decision whether or not to tell them, but you should. If you do, you won’t have to see her ever again.” He swallows, hard. “When people do things to you that you don’t want them to do, you have to tell someone.”

     The kid curls into himself. “But- I’m scared. What-“ he sniffles, “what if they hate me for letting her do that to me?”

     Peter feels his hands start to disappear, and he minutely shakes his head. Dissociating right now will help nobody, especially not this child in front of him. “They would never hate you for this, okay? It was _her_ fault, not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong.” His chest feels tight. “Even if you didn’t tell her no. It’s still her fault.”

     The teenager feels something akin to realization settle over him. _It was his fault, not mine._

     Tony peeks his head out from his knees, peering down at the older boy. “ _Promise_?”

     Peter’s voice quivers. “Pr-promise.” He takes a deep breath.  “I want to tell you a story.”

 

* * *

 

     Spider-Man calls Tony’s mom. The number rests on the fridge, and it’s got Judy’s name on it. He scribbles it out before she picks up. He tells her that something happened, how she and her husband need to come home.

     They’re back in twenty minutes, and Peter Parker sits next to a shaking child for most of that time. Tony asks about what happened to Skip after his family found out.

     Peter lies, of course. Tells the kid that Skip is in jail, right now. How the court systems always put people who did things like that in prison.

     Tries not to think about the image his mind conjures up of Skip, face blown half off, eyes staring blankly at the wall.

     Tries not to think about the hypocrisy of it all. 

     He was lucky his abuser was put behind bars at all.

     Peter Parker assures him that what happened wasn’t his fault. Because it wasn’t, not in the slightest.

     Tony’s parents cry when the younger boy tells them what happened. His father gets angry, goes to his coat and yanks it on, eyes clouded over with mist. His mother grabs his arm.

     Tony’s parents hug him tight, promise that no one will ever do anything like that to him again.

     Peter tries not to cry ( _but he does, he always does_ ). He wonders what his own parents would say to him, if they knew about Skip.

     Spider-Man decides it’s time for him to leave. 

     Tony runs over and grabs at his legs, eyes wide. “ _Thank you!_ ”

     The teenager feels his heart break. He kneels down so he’s eye level with the younger boy. “Of course. If you ever need anything,” Peter hands the kid a slip of paper, stolen off the kitchen counter, with his cellphone number scrawled across it, “give me a call.”

 

* * *

     Tony, _his_ Tony, watches the footage from the suit, before Peter makes it back to the tower. FRIDAY had alerted the older superhero of a drastic increase in oxygen intake and heart rate.

     He’s greeted with a hug when FRIDAY lets him in, and the teen melts at the contact.

     “I’m so proud of you, kid.” Mr. Stark hands him a mug of hot chocolate, scrubs at his face for the few fleeting tears that remain. 

     Peter smiles genuinely for the first time for over a year.

     “Me too, Mr. Stark.”

     The older man mock-hits him with a dishtowel. “What did I tell you about calling me Tony, squirt?”

     Peter grins. “Not to do it until I’m as old as you are?”

     “ _You little-_ “

* * *

 

     Mr. Stark sets him up an appointment with his therapist. He didn’t want to go, at first, but May practically begged him to.

     He’s been going every Saturday since.

     The sessions exhaust him, but he can make it through a week without having a panic attack, now. Can go to school without flinching away from people in the hallway. He’s even on anxiety medication, now. For the first time since he was young, he feels like he can breathe without panic grasping his lungs in its iron fist.

     He’s still got things he needs to work on, of course. His hands still shake when he thinks about laying down flat on his back. And when anyone unexpectedly touches him. 

     But it’s getting better. 

     They invite Tony and May and his two best friends over for a movie night. The older superhero spends the entire night making jokes about Peter’s obsession with science fiction. Ned agrees with the man. MJ calls them both hypocrites. 

     Peter smiles, and laughs, and jokes back; even lets Tony wrap an arm around his shoulders, at one point, the contact comforting instead of stifling. 

     In this moment, watching the television light up the faces of the one’s he loves, he is real. Everything around him is ethereal, incandescent. The flashing images leave mirages of sunflowers and honeydew sown onto the dark expanse under his eyelids.

     He’s going to be okay.

      _He’s going to be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yEeT.  
> Idk, I didn’t really like the ending, but it worked lol. 
> 
> Also I wanted to add in the scene from the original comic, because the message there is super super important. It’s never the victims fault. Regardless of whether consent was given or not, if you are underage and/or under the influence, it is considered assault. If you are above 18, and haven’t given explicit consent, it is considered assault. If you said yes, but were coerced into it, or if your body language or any other part of you is not on board with what is happening, it is still assault. And in all of these cases, the perpetrator is the one at fault, never the victim.
> 
> I hope y’all enjoyed this story. I might write another fic in the future, idk, so watch out for that lol.
> 
> .  
> .
> 
> Also, if y’all ever wanna talk about anything, hmu @helloitisiafellowgay on both tumblr and instagram. 
> 
> I don’t bite, i promise lol
> 
> (Also i need friends >-<)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on here, don’t kill me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments are very very much appreciated ❤️
> 
> Also, before I forget:
> 
> Sexual abuse/assault/rape is a very serious thing. It is okay to respond to trauma differently than those around you, your environments are different. But it is never your fault. Whether you were a minor, or incapacitated in some way, or even if you changed your mind part way through and they didn’t stop, it’s not your fault. 
> 
> It’s something that sticks with you forever, but it does get easier to manage, with help.
> 
> If you ever experience it, regardless of your environment, you need to let someone know. Even if you’re afraid, or the person is threatening you, or your family, or even themselves, someone else needs to be made aware of the situation so they can help you.
> 
> If any of you guys ever need to talk, DM me on one of my social media outlets:
> 
> Instagram: hello_it_is_i_a_fellow_gay  
> Tumblr: helloitisiafellowgay


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